I Want, I Want
by WildeOne
Summary: CurtBrian. R is probably a bit strong. For my Mao, who puts up with me, and introduced me to the glory of Oscar Wilde.


"Open-mouthed, the baby god

Immense, bald, though baby-headed,

Cried out for the mother's dug.

The dry volcanoes cracked and spit,"

                                                "I Want, I Want" by Sylvia Plath

I Want, I Want

"I want a blowjob."

They're watching television when he says it. Curt's head snaps to face him. Awed silence. Then: 

"What did you say?"

"I said, 'I want a blow-"

"Yes, that's what I thought you said." 

His eyes are rather wide; he still can't believe what Brian just said. He turns his head, in wonder, back to the TV.

"Well?" 

Now Brian turns to look at him, curious, inspecting.

"Well what?"

"Well aren't you going to?" 

They've been together for four months now, in and out of hotel rooms across the country. Up at six, on the road, play a show, play another one, go to a new hotel same beds same curtains same doors same maids, shoot the same junk, snort the same white lines, throw back the same throat-ripping scotch. Fuck, get fucked, maybe Brian, maybe someone else, maybe both.  Lather rinse repeat until you have trouble remembering where you came from and who you are. 

"Going to what Brian? No I'm not going to give you a fucking blowjob. Jesus Brian, who fucking asks like that?" 

More silence. But it's not uncomfortable for him.  He just sits there, unperturbed.

"So, you're not going to?" 

Curt claims that he hasn't touched Lady Heroin since he's been with Brian "I'm on the methadone and I'm getting my act together" but he's lying. Brian pretends he doesn't notice, doesn't care. Neither have said the three little words. Neither plan to.

Curt explodes. "No I'm fucking not going to suck you off! It's not the fucking concept I'm having problems with Brian! It's your fucking attitude. You just state it like that, like you want it and you don't care what kind of mood I'm in or what I want. You're just like, "suck me off".  Jesus fucking Christ. You just don't do that."

Pause. "You don't?"

"No! You fucking don't!"

"I don't know why you're getting so worked up about this Curt, I - " 

"I'm not worked up about it, okay?" 

Words belied by the fact that his face is unpleasantly flushed and he's still shouting and waving his arms about.

Brian nods, in that infuriatingly superior way of his. "Okay. You're not."

Curt snaps. 

"Fine, you want a fucking blowjob?" he asks rhetorically. Brian knows better than to respond.

All red face and angry eyes, Curt picks Brian up, rough and demanding. He feels vaguely neanderthalic, and he feels he should be more bothered by this feeling than he is. He hurls Brian down on the bed where he bounces once, twice, in a jarred limb-flying way, before settling into the mattress, legs conveniently splayed. Brian's too-tight sparkling trousers, normally an asset, are now a hindrance as wild-eyed Curt tries to rip them off. There is nothing sexual in this. This is about power.

Brian lays still, eyes closed, beatific, letting Curt continue his flustered ministrations. Finally, Curt pulls Brian's trousers down enough to (he's not wearing underwear, he never does) suck. Which he does. With frightening intensity. He rakes his teeth along Brian's length more than is really necessary, sucks a little harder than he probably should. But Brian doesn't say anything.

Then Brian comes, still silent, only his gripping of the sheet and the stream of white viscous liquid spilling in Curt's mouth indicate he's come at all. Curt swallows defiantly, almost daring Brian to say anything. But he doesn't. Curt lies down next to him. He can hear the television still mumbling in the other room

"Thank you," Brian says serenely and sits up stretching. Curt doesn't move, eyes closed, listening to some woman announce this week's lottery winner. Brian's slightly worried he might have gone too far this time. But then, eyes still closed, Curt reaches a searching hand over to grip his wrist, and Brian knows it's okay.

"Do you love me?" Curt asks.

"Yes." He replies, no hesitation. Not the same as I love you. He doesn't even bother to ask it back. He lies back down and falls asleep to dreams of skin and heat and, wondrously, not a guitar or needle in sight.


End file.
